


let me just give up, let me just let go

by iamalystark



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Depressed Peter Parker, Depression, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Heavy Angst, I'm Sorry, Michelle Jones Is a Good Bro, Ned Leeds is a Good Bro, Peter Parker Angst, Peter Parker Has Anxiety, Peter Parker Has Issues, Peter Parker Has Panic Attacks, Peter Parker Has a Family, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Sad, Self-Harm, Suicidal Peter Parker, Suicidal Thoughts, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:47:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27379693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamalystark/pseuds/iamalystark
Summary: Peter Parker can't do this anymore. Every day is the same. Get up, wish he hadn't, pretend, pretend, pretend. And rinse and repeat. He can't do this anymore, he doesn't want to.(Or, Peter has depression and is in need of serious help.)
Relationships: Happy Hogan & Peter Parker, May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker, Michelle Jones/Peter Parker, Ned Leeds & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 28
Kudos: 320





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> please heed the warnings in the tags guys!! this fic deals with extremely triggering topics such as depression, self-harm, and suicidal thoughts and actions. if you feel like that will hurt you, please don't read.

Peter Parker didn't believe in God. 

He used to, when he was little. He went to church every Sunday with Mom and Dad, and he even went to Sunday School every other week _after_ church. 

He learned about the same things all the other kids learned about. Jesus, God, Mary. (She had his mom's name!) He learned about Heaven. 

But still, he didn't quite understand it. Not until he was five and he got home from school to find his fish, Dory, upside down and not moving. (He'd discovered Finding Nemo the year before and had been obsessed, begging and begging until his parents finally agreed to get him a small goldfish.)

Mom sat him down and took his hands in hers. She said, "Dory passed away, Sweetheart. God decided it was his time to go. He's in Heaven now, Pete."

And the boy frowned, squeezed his mother's hands. "Well, can I go to Heaven to see him?" He asked hopefully. He missed Dory. Who would he tell about school now?

Mom laughed softly and shook her head. "No, baby. Not for a very long time. We only go to Heaven after we've had long lives, Petey. You're still five, Love. You've got a good, long life ahead of you," she explained to him, brushing his curls behind his ears. 

"But I'll see him once I'm all done bein' a grown up?"

Mom laughed again. "Of course, baby. Now, let's go say goodbye to Dory." She stood up and led him back toward the fish tank. 

While he was sad he wouldn't see Dory for a long time, he was content with the fact that he would see him again. 

The year after that, Mom and Dad gave him a new stuffy, a plush little toy that looked exactly like Nemo from the movie, and they told him they'd be back to pick him up from his aunt and uncle's before the week was over. 

Then Uncle Ben got a phone call, and Uncle Ben started crying, and he talked to Aunt May all quiet, the way grown ups did when they didn't want kids to know what they were talking about. 

And then Aunt May told him that his parents passed away, she told him that they went to Heaven, and Peter thought about how he still missed Dory. He thought about how Mom would never give him hugs and kisses anymore, and Dad would never pick him up on his shoulders so he could pretend to fly again. 

He cried. 

Aunt May and Uncle Ben held him as they all cried, and Peter asked through his sobs, "Why'd God take them?"

"I don't know, Pete. I don't know." Uncle Ben whispered, and that was the very first time Peter Parker wished he was dead so he didn't have to wait any longer. 

He still believed in God and Heaven though, because if he didn't believe, then maybe God wouldn't let him into Heaven to see Mom and Dad and Dory.

Seven years later, though, he was thirteen and he was staring down at his bloody hands and his lifeless uncle, and he knew it was all fake. He knew that if there really was some powerful entity out there, they wouldn't have let this happen. They wouldn't have let Ben die. 

And that night, once he was home and his hands were scrubbed clean, he heard May sobbing in her room, and he just knew, if God were real, he wouldn't take Ben from his wife. 

So no, Peter Parker did not believe in God. 

That didn't stop him from hoping, though. That didn't stop him from praying to anything and anyone that he did see them again someday. 

He hoped that when he died, he could hug his parents again and tell his uncle how sorry he was. 

It didn't stop him from hoping to see them when he died, and it didn't stop him from wishing that he already was.


	2. one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a day in the life of a depressed spidey babey

Peter wakes up and he immediately wishes he hadn't. He's so tired, tired in a way that no amount of sleep could ever fix. But he has to get up, has to smile and show Aunt May that he's fine. 

So he does. He sluggishly sits up, looking over at his alarm clock that's two minutes from going off, and drops his face into his hands for a few moments. 

He closes his eyes, just breathing and telling himself he's fine, he can do this, everybody else in the damn world can do it, so he should be able to too. 

A loud, annoying beeping begins blaring from his alarm clock, and he squeezes his eyes shut tighter, his hands moving to his ears as he presses against them tightly, frustrated and irritated. 

"Peter! I know you're awake! Turn off your alarm and get your butt out here!" His aunt calls from the kitchen, her voice taking on a joking tone, and he sighs. 

Peter turns off the alarm. "I'll be out in a minute!" 

She doesn't reply, so he assumes she heard him and gets up, shuffling his way to his closet and pulling out a random hoodie and pair of jeans. 

For a moment he wonders if he should shower, but brushes the thought aside. Later. As he changes out of his two-day old clothes and into his new outfit, his eyes land on his right thigh, where at least a dozen small scabs are close to healing. He remembers before he got his powers, when it took weeks for the wounds to heal. He kind of misses it. 

He doesn't think more on it, finishing changing and tossing his dirty clothes to the chair by his desk. Before Peter closes his closet door, his eyes catch on his suit, hanging discarded next to his jackets.

Peter hasn't touched it in over a week, and a stab of guilt flashes through him before he turns away, opening his door and shuffling down the short hallway toward the kitchen. 

May smiles at him from her spot standing near the counter, and her eyes flick over his appearance. She raises a brow. "When was the last time you showered, young man? Your hair is as greasy as the oil in that pan."

Peter follows his aunt's gaze to a dirty frying pan in the sink, and then to the trash where the remains of what must have been some sort of bacon lie. 

"A few days ago. I'll shower tonight," the teen says dismissively, and he plops down at the island, where a plate of toast sits. 

"For me?"

May rolls her eyes fondly, snorting. "No, that's for my other nephew."

Peter cracks a grin at that, and it strikes him how stupid it is that it was hard to smile. He begins nibbling at the charred toast in front of him, not even bothering to butter it, and watches May lean against the counter in front of him. 

"So, I noticed you haven't been out as Spider-Man lately. Something wrong?" She questions, a suspicious look on her face as she watches him eat.

He's quick to pull a confused face for a second, laughing. "What? I've just been taking a small break because I have homework," the boy assures, shaking his head as if even the idea of something being wrong is absurd. 

She watches him for a moment longer before sighing. "Okay, baby. If you're sure. I've gotta get to work so I'll probably see you tonight, okay?" 

May walks over to him, brushing his curls out of his face and pressing a quick kiss to his forehead. "I love you, Peter. Goodbye," she murmurs, and he returns the statement, watching her leave. 

He sets down the piece of toast in his hands and stares at the plate for a few minutes. Peter wants to go back to his room and lie down, wants to curl up and just forget about school for once.

But then he thinks of how his grades will drop and how May will be so mad, and he sucks in a shuddering breath. He takes another deeper, smoother breath. "I can do this, I'm fine," Peter tells himself, and he dumps his food in the trash, slipping on his shoes and grabbing his bag from the couch. 

With one last glance at his closed bedroom door, he sets off for school.

* * *

When Peter gets to his locker, Ned is waiting there like always with a smile. He copies it, reaching out to do their handshake, before he puts his bag in his locker and begins to grab his books from it. 

"Dude, did you hear they're releasing another Lego Star Wars game?" His friend asks excitedly, and while that normally would have made him perk up, just as excited as Ned, it just. . . _didn't_. But he needs to show Ned he's okay, so he grins even brighter. 

"No, seriously? When?" 

They start down the hall together, and if Ned suspects something, he doesn't show it, rambling on about the new game. 

At lunch, he sits in his usual spot across from his best friend, but he notices that MJ is sitting a few seats from him today instead of at the other table. 

"Oh, hey MJ! How come you're sitting over here?" Ned asks, and Peter is sort of relieved he doesn't have to. He doesn't know why, it's not like he doesn't like MJ. He does like her, she's becoming one of his best friends, right up there next to Ned, but sometimes he just doesn't want to talk at all. 

For a few seconds, he wonders what it would be like to never talk again. He wonders how long it would take people to notice. 

"I felt like it," the girl responds, shrugging. She has a book in front of her and an apple by her elbow. She doesn't eat lunch often. Peter only noticed it because Ned pointed out one day that he and MJ both hadn't gotten lunch and he was wondering what was wrong with them. 

He always got lunch after that, and Ned never noticed that he didn't finish it. 

Peter pokes at the school mashed potatoes with his spoon, his chin resting in his hand, and he feels a small flare up from his Spider Senses, flinching as a balled up piece of paper collides with the back of his head. 

"Hey, Parker! Do you not have a shower anymore? Are you so poor that your water had to get shut off?" Flash called, his voice a mocking sneer.

His hands clenched into fists and his nostrils flared in anger, but he didn't say a word. "He doesn't have a butler to turn the shower on for him. Forgive him if he's a little slow," Ned spits, clearly angry for his friend. 

MJ gives them one of her rare smiles, before tossing her apple at Peter and not looking the least bit surprised when he catches it right away. "You do look like shit, though."

It doesn't make him mad when it comes from her, but it does send a flash of insecurity through him before he brushes it off. He doesn't have the energy to care about his appearance right now. 

When the bell rings, he throws the apple away with his lunch. 

* * *

In his last class of the day, Spanish III, Peter feels anxiety clawing its way up his throat from the second he walks in the door. He hates this class, has for as long as he can remember, but he has to keep taking it otherwise he won't have the credits to graduate next year and he _has_ to graduate-

"Mr. Parker?"

Ms. George is standing in front of him with her brows raised, and his whole face flushes red in embarrassment. "W-What?"

"The homework from yesterday, Peter. The Unit 26 worksheet?" She repeats, a small frown on her face, and of course there was homework yesterday.

He probably would have done it if he hadn't completely forgotten and cried so hard he couldn't breathe, dragging a blade across his thigh so many times that blood was streaked on his hands. 

"I must have forgotten it at home," the boy lies, and Ms. George sighs, moving past him. He can feel the gazes of his classmates on him and he hates it. 

A few moments later, she's back, handing him a worksheet. "Finish this tonight, okay? For now put it away and pay attention to class."

It's no surprise that he's immediately overwhelmed, staring down at the paper and trying to pay attention at the same time, just wanting to get it done, but he doesn't understand it. 

It's based off of a story he was supposed to read days ago but he doesn't remember a single word from it, and he doesn't understand half of the words on the page. 

By the time class is over, he hasn't written down a single thing, and he's angry at himself, wanting yet again to just never do his school work again. Releasing an aggravated and stressed sigh, Peter puts the paper with his other stuff and is about to leave, when Ms. George calls for him.

His heart pounds in his chest at the thought of being in trouble or getting lectured, and his palms begin to sweat.

"Peter, is something going on at home? I've noticed that you've started to fall behind a lot lately. I'm being as lenient as I can, but you're missing multiple assignments, and those you do have done have little to no effort in them."

Peter wants to scream at her, he wants to cry and tell her he did put effort in, he put so much effort. He had literally been contemplating killing himself because he fucking hates it so much, but he didn't put any effort in?

"Nothing's going on. I'm sorry about my grades, I'll try to bring it up," he whispers instead, and with another disappointed sigh, she let him go. 

As he pushes open the doors to get outside, he's still thinking about the stupid Spanish homework, and he almost doesn't see Happy's car. He spots it just before he was about to turn to walk home. He couldn't start walking home then turn around to get in a car, he'd look so stupid. 

It's Friday, which means he has a lab day with Mr. Stark, the days he usually stays the night, and if May allows it, the weekend too. 

He can't, though, because he has to do his homework, and if Mr. Stark sees him struggling he'll think he's so stupid-

Peter reaches the Audi, and pulls open the back door like he's used to, sliding in and slipping a smile on his face. "Hi Happy! How was your day?" 

"Fine," comed the man's expected response, and Peter shot one more fake smile at him before looking to his bag, where he knows that paper is sitting. He looks away, and as Happy starts driving, he lies his head against the window, just thinking. 

He thinks so much, that sometimes he just wants to remove his brain from his head and take a break. Scratch that, not sometimes, all the time. The brunet snorts quietly at the thought, and he suddenly notices that something feels weird. Different. 

His eyes travel to the window partition and he realizes. It's not up. It dawns on Peter that he hadn't talked Happy's ear off this time, and when he meets the older man's eyes in the mirror, Happy looks concerned. 

Shit. "Did you get much sleep last night, Happy? I didn't, I was working on homework for hours," the teen converses, a small smile on his face. Something changes on Happy's face then, because he rolls his eyes. 

"I slept fine, Kid." 

"Do you live at the tower? I just realized I can't imagine you in a house, it's a weird mental image-"

The partition goes up, and instead of the small pang of hurt he usually feels, Peter lets out a sigh of relief. He doesn't want to pretend anymore. The thought sticks in his head for a little bit, and a real smile tugs at his lips as he thinks of how ironic it is. 

He doesn't want to pretend at all anymore.


	3. two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: self-harm

When they arrive at the tower, Peter's legs are both bouncing up and down at a speed so fast, they almost look like they're vibrating. When the black vehicle stops, Peter feels random pangs of anxiety stabbing at his chest for absolutely no reason. 

He's been to the tower countless times, he's not even that anxious around Mr. Stark that much anymore, but right now, because of his stupid homework, he feels as though if he's even in the same room as the billionaire, he'll immediately know that Peter's struggling, and nobody can know. 

Letting out a stressed sigh, the teen climbs out of the Audi and plasters a smile on his face, waving goodbye to Happy and hoping the man can't tell how nervous he is from the way he walks to the elevator. 

"Welcome back, Mr. Parker," FRIDAY greets, taking him up without him having to give her directions. 

"Hi, FRIDAY. Is Mr. Stark in the lab or. . ?" Why is is voice shaking? What's wrong with him? 

"He is. He has asked me to bring you to him. Is that where you'd like to go?"

"Yeah! Yeah," he mumbles, taking a steadying breath. The elevator doors slide open the next moment, and he walks in with a small genuine smile.

With Mr. Stark, he didn't have to try as hard to smile. "Hi, Mr. Stark!"

The man spins around from his spot at his work bench, a wide smile taking over his face. "Hey, Underoos. Did you bring your suit today? I have an update I'd like to add."

Immediately, Peter's cheeks flush red and he mentally berates himself. "U-Uh, no. I'm sorry, I left it at home," he stammers, his hands in his pockets so they don't shake. 

His mentor narrows his eyes for a split second, before his face returns to normal. "Weren't planning on patrolling today?"

"Um, no, I have homework I was gonna work on instead," Peter lies, then realizes he actually isn't lying, but now he has to do the homework he doesn't even want to look at.

"Busy few weeks?" Mr. Stark asks, gesturing for the kid to sit down, "I noticed you haven't been out in the suit for about two weeks."

Peter sits in his usual spot, shrugging. "Uh, yeah. Just a lot of Spanish and uh, English homework," the teen explains, internally cringing. 

He's just digging himself into a deeper and deeper hole. "Oh? Need help?"

"No, no, I can do it myself. I'll just work on it when I get home."

The billionaire turns fully to look at the boy, squinting suspiciously at him. "You're usually all over finishing your homework the second you get it. C'mon, we could work on it now. I don't have anything important to do, so after we're done, we can just tinker, or go watch a movie or something."

Peter wants to cry. He wants to say that he hasn't been excited to do homework in so long, he wants to say that he waits until the very last minute, and even just doesn't do it sometimes. He wants to say that he's overwhelmed and stressed and he can't do this anymore, but he _can't_.

"Sure." His voice comes out in a whispered rasp, and he reaches into his bag to pull out the Spanish worksheet, ignoring how his mentor drags the paper toward him, and grabs a pencil from his bag as well.

"Oh, is this about that one walk or whatever? I recognize _camina_." For a moment, Mr. Stark looks like such a dad that it hurts. It just reminds him how the man will never think of him, how he will never even consider him.

"Yeah," Peter repsonds hesitantly, swallowing down his nervousness to scoot closer to the man. 

Mr. Stark shoots a grin at him, taking the pencil from his hand and pointing at the first question. "Spanish has always been super easy for me. Did you know I'm half Italian? The languages are really similar so it was easy to learn. Although I did mix them up every once in a while,"

With every word, Peter only feels more and more stupid. Spanish used to be easy, everything used to be easy. He was the smart kid, the kid with straight A's who didn't even have to put in any effort. He used to be okay. He's not anymore, he doesn't remember how to be that person. 

"Yeah."

His mentor glances over at him, his brows furrowed. "You okay? You're acting different today."

He shouldn't be, though. He shouldn't be acting different, because he always feels like this, he can't remember a time he hasn't. For a moment, he considers dropping his mask, he considers finally letting himself break and get help. He imagines the way Mr. Stark would hug him and tell him everything would be okay. And he wants it.

But then Peter thinks about the absolute terror he feels at just the thought of someone finding out, thinks about how weak they'll see him as, how they'll never quite look at him the same or trust him again, and he can't do it. 

"I'm just a bit tired. I've been staying up a lot to study," he lies, mustering a half smile. 

Mr. Stark takes on a contemplative look, before he drops the pencil. "They've sure been working you a lot lately. Wanna just take a break and watch a movie? I'm sure your Spanish will last one night without you," he suggests, and Peter hates how quick his shoulders slump in relief. 

His lips tug upward in a forced smile and he nods shyly. "Um, yeah, that would be nice."

"Great! It's decided then. FRI, order some pizza, will you?" Tony throws his arm around Peter's shoulders as they stand and make their way to the elevator, and the teen subtly leans into the touch, desperately wanting the man to just wrap him in a tight hug. "Star Wars again?"

"You know me so well," Peter teases, yet another fake smile on his face. Why can't he just genuinely smile? Why can't he be happy?

"Of course I do! What kind of mentor would I be if I didn't know my Spider-Baby like the back of my hand?"

Peter's cheeks flame, and he stammers, mumbling a squeaked response which just sounds like some sort of mouse. The man only laughs, patting him on the back, and they finally make it up to the common room, wandering over to the sofa. 

Peter drops down onto it with a tired sigh and pulls his knees up to his chest as he settles in comfortably, dropping his head back and letting his eyes flutter closed. God, he's tired. He just wants to sleep for a million years. Thoughts like that used to startle him, used to have him sobbing into his pillow because he was so scared that he'd act on it, but now it's just another option that maybe one day he'll take. 

"Hey, Kiddo." The genius dropped down beside him, making him jolt in shock and look over to him, relaxing. "So which movie? One of the prequels? Empire Strikes Back?"

"I'm touched that you actually know what Star Wars is because of me," Peter says truthfully, a real grin tugging at his lips as Mr. Stark doesn't hesitate to wrap his arm around him again, tugging him against his side. 

"Maybe I just watch Star Wars, ever think about that?" The billionaire says in a faux offended tone, before telling FRIDAY to choose one randomly. 

"Pizzas will be here in a bit, Pete. I know how hungry you get with your Spider metabolism."

The teenager doesn't say a word, it suddenly hitting him that he hasn't eaten a full meal in a long time. He can't remember the last time he did. 

So if he just happens to fall asleep with his head on his mentor's shoulder before the food even arrives, and the man forgets to make him eat, it's really nobody's fault but his own. 

He wakes up groggily, for a split second wanting to just go back to sleep, but then he realizes where he is, who he's leaning against, and sits up, shifting awkwardly and hiding a wince as his arm knocks against his almost healed thigh. 

"Time's it?" Peter asks, blinking sluggishly and pulling away from the man whose suit jacket was wrinkled and so warm and comfortable. 

"Uh, almost eleven. I should probably call your aunt and let her know you're staying the night," Tony murmured in response, sounding like he'd been either asleep or close to it as well. 

"No!" Peter cries, eyes widening suddenly, and internally cringing at the way his voice cracks. He wrings his hands in his lap, biting at his bottom lip. "Um, I just wanna go home, if that's alright."

Mr. Stark frowns at him for a few seconds, before slowly making his way to his feet. "Okay," he hedges, "any particular reason?"

"I- I just- I wanna- I-"

"Hey, hey," he soothes, rubbing his arm with a small frown. "It's okay, you don't have to explain. I'll take you home. Go grab your stuff from the lab, alright?"

Nodding, Peter anxiously makes his way back down to his mentor's lab and squeezes his eyes shut in frustration in the elevator, letting out an aggravated sigh at how stupid he's acting. In that moment, he hates himself. 

When he gathers his bag, stuffing the still unfinished paper in it, he snorts, shaking his head. There's no difference between this one and any other moment in his life. 

There's no words spoken between the two, not during their walk to the car and during the ride there. Peter knows that the older man can tell something is going on, it seems like lately everybody has been noticing, little by little. But it's never much, never enough, and he's confident in his ability to pretend. It doesn't change that he's tired of it though. 

"I'll see you, okay Pete?"

"Of course. Bye, Mr. Stark," the teen whispers, and he doesn't look back at the man as he walks inside.

The apartment is achingly empty, and he listens as Mr. Stark drives away. May is gone, most likely at work, and there's a Post-It note on the counter, saying how she'd see him tomorrow if he ended up coming home from the tower. 

The same numb feeling he gets all the time comes crawling right back through him, squeezing around his lungs, settling over his mind and leaving his heart heavy. When he goes back into his room, he drops his bag to the ground, eyes flicking to the copy of the worksheet in his bag. It doesn't bug him like it should. 

He sits on his bed, his movements sluggish and mechanical as he pulls open his bedside drawer, grabbing out the thin silver blade he'd taken from a razor months ago, and he tugs his jeans down just enough to access his right leg, pulling up the hem of his boxers to let his eyes travel over the now healed scars. He runs his fingers over them for a moment, before pressing the metal into his skin, and dragging a long line across it. 

Peter usually winces, hisses a bit, but this time he only stares in concentration, picking up the blade and making yet another cut. He can't help the way his mind he keeps screaming more, more, more! And he obeys. 

By the time he finally stops, the razor and his finger are covered in red, and the new cuts have dark crimson dotting them. It's almost hypnotizing when a drop of blood begins rolling down the pale skin of his thigh, and he realizes quickly that they're bleeding a lot, too much to hide if it got on his clothes, so Peter reaches into the same drawer he'd pulled the blade from and finds a roll of bandages that are half gone. 

He makes quick work in wrapping them around his bleeding leg, and then puts the remaining supplies back in the drawer. He wipes the blood from the blade and his finger onto the bandages, streaking them red, and he drops the metal back in the drawer with a small clang, sliding it shut. 

Peter rights his clothes, and lies down, curling up in a ball and wrapping his arms around his legs, much like he did at the tower. Tonight, tears don't come. They don't stain his pillow, they don't make his eyes red and puffy. They don't make him sniffle with every breath as his nose becomes stuffed, and they don't burn at his eyes. 

He wants to cry, distantly, he wants to feel something, he wants to feel anything besides the sting on his skin. But he just. . . doesn't. 

Peter doesn't want to do this anymore, he can't do this anymore. He can't keep pretending and just barely going on. He _can't_. 

But he does anyway. Eventually, he falls asleep, and then he wakes up feeling just like he has for as long as he can remember, and he does it all over again.


	4. three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: graphic descriptions of self-harm

Peter has gotten used the burning pain on his thigh when he showers. The first time he'd cut, he'd panicked over the blood dripping down his arm, and he'd jumped in the shower and tried to clean it up. 

He still remembers the way the water burned so intensely, the way he had dug his nails into the skin around the cuts and clenched his eyes shut tightly, barely able to breathe through the pain. He was twelve then, he'd barely felt pain. 

The worst he reacts now is a little hiss of breath through his teeth. It doesn't even make him tear up anymore, not unless he accidentally cuts a little too deep, a little too quick. Steaming water causes his skin to turn red from the heat, and Peter rubs his thumb over some of the particularly thick scars on his leg. They had needed stitches, he knew it. But honestly, he'd rather bleed out then let someone see the array of lines on his body. 

Leaning his head back, the teen lets the water soak into his curls and sighs. He never has the energy to make himself get in the shower, but when he finally does, he never wants to leave it. When the water starts to become cold, though, he has to. Peter turns the shower off, stepping out and grabbing his towel. 

He really hates that the first thing his eyes land on are May's razors. The teen remembers breaking them apart with his fingers, little nicks forming on his skin, and eventually throwing away all but one blade to leave marks on his thighs. That was always after he'd thrown away his previous ones, claiming he wanted to get better. 

Tonight though, as he stares at the package of razors, he tells himself he won't do it, and he goes to his room without fresh cuts. 

* * *

That night, his resolve breaks. He falls asleep with silent tears running down his cheeks and his leg pulsing in pain.

* * *

Ned texts him Sunday morning, asking if he wants to have a movie night at his house. He says MJ will be there too, and it wouldn't be complete without him. 

But as Peter looks at his phone from his spot curled up on his bed, he's just so _tired_. He doesn't want to pretend. He doesn't want to be strong and act like he doesn't want to die everyday. 

He texts back: _sorry dude. internship_. And he rolls back over to try to fall asleep again. When his eyes land on his homework, Peter struggles through a large, steadying breath, and closes his eyes. 

Out of sight, out of mind, right?

* * *

Sometime in the afternoon, May knocks lightly at his door and cracks it open. "You up?" She asks, and he makes a noise in the back of his throat. 

His aunt laughs. "Up late last night, huh? More homework? I should file a complaint that they've got my baby working all day everyday."

Peeking his eyes open, he hopes that his panic doesn't show in his eyes, and realizes he's been using homework as an excuse too often. "Actually, I was patrolling. The work load is starting to ease up," he lies, smiling up at her. 

The grin on her face is almost worth the guilt making his chest feel tight. "Yeah? I was starting to get a bit worried."

And if that doesn't make him want to both laugh and cry, he doesn't know what will. She'd been close to looking deeper, past his fake smiles and empty lies. He's scared. Scared she might still look. And he's so fucking devastated that she hadn't looked, because he _knows_ he needs help. 

He wants help more than anything in the world, but he's more scared of it than anything he's ever faced. 

"I'm fine, May. Is that Lasagna I smell?" Peter asks, just to change the subject. 

She brightens. "Yep! I even managed no to burn it this time! Though, it is a little dark in the corners, but it's still good, I promise!"

As she leads him from his room, a hand on his back, he doesn't have the heart to tell her that food hasn't been good to him for weeks. To not worry her, though, he forces it down, and when she puts another helping on his plate, saying she knows how his metabolism is, he eats that too. 

Peter retreats to his room and locks the door afterward, and the second he sits down he's tugging at his jeans to look at the nearly healed scabs on his thigh. 

Tears prick at his eyes at the sight of his blemished skin, remembering a time when it was smooth and pale.

Before, when he'd first started cutting with a pair of scissors and barely there scratches, he'd used his wrists. He was always scared, though, wearing long sleeves and doodling on his arms until the faint scars faded. Wanting to cut deeper, though, he'd moved to his right thigh. 

His veins, a deep blue that contrast to the paleness of his skin, call for him. He itches to reopen the only visible scar there, so old it was basically invisible. He itches to open even more, leaving crimson red dripping down his arm. 

Before he can even register it, he's opening his drawer and grabbing the blade he'd used just the night before. It was thinner than the blade from his sharpener, and it broke the skin easier. 

Biting his lip, Peter brings the metal to his wrist, an inch under his palm. Should he do this? He's been doing so well at leaving his arms unmarred, and he knows he'll spend so long hiding it from people, but it just feels so right. 

He makes the first cut. It's barely a scratch, an extremely thin line with barely any blood. It should heal within an hour or two. Under it, he makes one slightly deeper. Immediately, blood wells in it, and a perfectly round drop rolls down his skin, staining it red. He loses track after that, and when he finally stops, his whole arm burns and the hand with the blade is shaking, blood smeared on the blade and on his fingers. 

Peter drops it back into his drawer, tears blurring his vision, and he panics. "Oh God," he whispers, breaths coming out in wheezes, his eyes locked on his arm. "What did I do?" 

Knowing he can't leave his room or Aunt May will see, Peter grabs his limited roll of bandages and quickly wraps his arm, wiping the blood off his fingers once again. Fixing his clothes, the teen hides the evidence and lies back down, pulling his thick blanket over his shoulders and squeezing his eyes shut. 

He only opens them again when his phone goes off with the notification tone of Mr. Stark's messages. 

_Mr. Stark: Hey, kid. I spoke to your aunt and she suggested a lab day since you went home early this weekend. I'll pick you up after school Monday._

_Peter: Sounds good!_

He falls back asleep with panic clenching at his heart and his pillow muffling his sobs. 


	5. four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there's gonna be spideychelle in this story now and i decided it while writing this chapter 😌

Peter wakes the next morning and immediately scratches at the nearly healed cuts on his arm. They'd scabbed up over night and would likely be gone by the time the day was over. 

Turning and wiping at his eyes to rid them of crud, he squints at his alarm clock to see he has literally three minutes before it goes off, and he groans. He's like ten kinds of tired, and barely getting any sleep is not helping his case at all.

When it finally does go off, he glares at it for a solid ten seconds before he turns it off. He listens for a moment and doesn't hear May calling for him, so she's likely at work. Crawling out of bed and not bothering to change from the clothes he'd been wearing all weekend, Peter shuffles out into the kitchen and his eyes immediately find a bright yellow sticky note on the counter. 

_Had to go into work early, sorry baby! Tina's sick :(. Have a great day at school!_

He recognizes Tina as the name of one of his aunt's coworker's that she'd spoken about before. Peter wants so badly to just go back to bed, but he knows May would get a call, he knows he'd be behind and people would worry and May would be mad, so he grabs his bag, puts his shoes on, and leaves. 

When he finally gets to school, students are everywhere, going inside and out, and the overwhelming noise makes him want to squeeze his hands over his ears so hard he goes deaf. He passes Flash and his friends without any comments, which he's incredibly thankful for, but when he gets inside, he doesn't spot Ned at their lockers and he tries to discreetly look around for him, to no avail. 

When he finally makes it over there with no sign of his best friend, his hands begin to shake at the thought of being alone all day, and he's just putting his bag in his locker when MJ pops up beside him. "Hey, loser," she greets nonchalantly, leaning against Ned's locker. 

Peter can't help the relieved smile that lights up his face. "Hi, MJ. Have you seen Ned?"

"Ouch. No, hey MJ, how's your day going so far?" She responds, face completely blank. Peter's eyes widen, his mouth dropping open at the thought of hurting her feelings, but a relaxed grin takes over her face. "I'm screwing with you. Nedward's gone today. Appointment. He said so in the group chat."

"Oh," Peter finishes grabbing the books he needs and carefully closes the locker. "My phone died. I didn't see it." It's a lie, but he really didn't see it. He barely has any interest in his phone anymore. He barely has interest in _anything_ anymore. 

"Aren't teenagers these days supposed to be like surgically attached to their electronics?" MJ asks as they both start toward their classes, and Peter raises a brow. 

"Are you not a teenager yourself?" 

"I don't know, am I?" She retorts ominously as they reach Peter's first class, and she backs away, vanishing into the crowd of students. 

Despite the anxiety of being alone for a lot of his classes, a genuine smile stays on his lips as he walks in.

* * *

It's no surprise that his stomach churns with anxiety the second he remembers about spanish class. He's walking to lunch when he remembers, and his footsteps immediately become slower, more sluggish, as if him being slower will make time slow down.

He doesn't even see MJ until he's sitting down, and she tosses an apple at him from her spot across from him. He blinks, catching it and looking up at her. "Why are you all depressed?" 

He panics for a split second, before realizing she means just in this instance. "I forgot to do my Spanish homework," Peter tells her, hating how often he lies to those he's close to. 

She nods, chewing very slowly on her slice of pizza. She has another on her tray, and as if hypnotized, picks it up and hands it out for him. "Oh, I- I don't need your food."

"Eat, Nerd," MJ insists, not taking it back, and Peter sighs, relenting and taking it from her. It's gone in minutes, and he has to admit that he _is_ hungry. The apple MJ threw at him is sitting by his arm, and he pretends not to notice his friend watching him as he picks it up and rolls it around in his hands. 

"You can have it. That was the whole point of me throwing it at you." 

A blush colors his cheeks, but for the first time in a while, he finally eats the apple. He's lost count by now how many times she's thrown one at him, only for him to chuck it in the trash when lunch is over. 

When the bell rings, Peter's disappointed for two reasons. One, he's suddenly anxious about Spanish again, and two, he doesn't want to leave MJ. 

"See you next period, loser," she says, before wandering off, and if he stares after her, it's nobody's business but his. 

* * *

"I've got to say, Peter, I'm really disappointed. I've given you as many chances as I could, because I know you're a good student, but you're just not getting anything done," Ms. George is telling him, a small frown on her face, and he wants to sink into the ground, never to be seen again. 

"I'm sorry. I-I've just been really busy. I'll really try, I promise," Peter responds, his voice barely a whisper, and Ms. George sighs. 

"I really hope so, Mr. Parker. Right now, I've got you down as an F."

She walks off after that, but he can't get her words out of his head. She's disappointed. He's a disappointment. _He's a disappointment_. Sucking in a shaky breath, Peter flinches as a crumpled piece of paper suddenly collides with the back of his head. He'd almost forgotten that Flash was in this class with him. 

"What's that, loser? You're failing Spanish? Should have known you wouldn't be know-it-all Parker for long," the black haired boy sneers, causing Peter to clench his fists, his nails digging painfully into his palms. 

For the rest of the period, Flash continues to throw paper at him, or kick the back of his chair lightly. Anything he can do to inconvenience him in the slightest. 

When the bell rings, he's out the door faster than he ever had been before. After putting his stuff in his bag, his eyes seek out MJ before he realizes what he's doing. 

He doesn't have to look hard, because she's walking right toward him. "Hey, come over to my apartment tonight."

Peter blinks owlishly at her. "What?" He squeaks, but a confused smile tugs at his lips. 

"I wanna dye your hair," the brunette supplies, unblinking. 

"Um, I should probably check with May, but okay. . ?"

She tilts her head at his acceptance, nodding her approval. "Not all your hair, obviously. Be there at eight."

Peter continues to smile confusedly, but he follows her outside and waves a goodbye to her as she walks off. His eyes search for Happy's Audi, and while he doesn't see it, the hotrod red sports car with the license plate STARK8 isn't very inconspicuous. Rolling his eyes, he starts to make his way over, wary of the students that had seen it and are whispering about it. 

As he approaches, the passenger window slides down to reveal Tony in the driver's seat, tinted sunglasses on the tip of his nose. "Hop in, Kiddo," he calls, and Peter does so hesitantly, offering a shaky smile to his mentor as he climbs in and buckles his seatbelt. 

"Hi, Mr. Stark! I have to leave early today, if that's okay. At eight," he says as the billionaire pulls out of the parking lot, and Tony glanced over at him with his brows raised. 

"What for? Aunt Hottie need you for something?"

"Ew, no," Peter scrunches his nose in disgust at the nickname, shaking his head. "MJ wants to dye my hair."

Tony raises his brow even more. "What color? You gonna do red and blue to match your spidey theme?" He questions, flicking on his turn signal as they slow to a stop at a traffic light. 

"Um, I don't know. And she's not gonna do _all_ my hair, Mr. Stark." 

Tony barks out a laugh, shaking his head. "I think it would be absolutely adorable. Anyway, it's alright. I'll take you there when we're done in the lab." 

"Not Happy?" Peter suddenly asks in confusion, wondering why the man suddenly wants to drive him everywhere. 

"What, disappointed?" Tony teases, but Peter can see that he's actually slightly hurt and the teen mentally curses himself for making Iron Man feel bad. 

"No! Of course not! It's just, Happy usually drives me places. Not you," the boy explains, wringing his hands in his lap nervously, but Tony glances over, a small frown adorning his face.

"I'm just messing with you, kid. What's up with you and MJ, anyway?"

"Mr. Stark! We're just friends!" Peter squeaks, his cheeks flushing red. 

Tony laughs loudly, a n amused grin remaining on his face, even as they pull into the tower's garage. "There's the Pete I know. I was starting to get worried last week."

Peter's very rare good mood abruptly drops, but he doesn't show it, offering his mentor a fake smile. "I was just a little stressed about school," he lies, shoving his hands in his pockets. 

The billionaire grins at him, and he doesn't have the heart to tell him that he was more than a little stressed, that he'd been thinking about killing himself because school was so hard. He can't tell him that he really really needs help and that he doesn't know how much longer he can do this. He doesn't tell him that he fell asleep last night with blood on his arm and tears staining his cheeks. 

He only smiles, and Tony, naive Tony, doesn't see past it.


	6. five

When they get to the tower, Peter is a ball of nerves. He was definitely anxious in the car, but it's like stepping into the building intensifies it by about a hundred. He thinks maybe it's FRIDAY, who's always there, always watching and ready to report to Tony if something seems wrong. 

Or maybe it's the man himself, his scrutinizing, worried gaze when Peter takes too long to respond and doesn't act how he normally does. Being around someone that he knows cares enough to dig deeper if he sees a reason is terrifying. 

Though, as they make their way to the elevator, the teen can't help but think about how Mr. Stark _hadn't_ dug deeper. As long as he continues to pretend, the billionaire won't notice a difference. Nobody will. 

Mr. Stark is saying something, he's sure of it, but he's not paying attention to anything anymore, staring at the elevator doors. When did they get in? 

Nobody notices. Nobody ever notices.

* * *

He's not able to get out of eating this time, Tony having ordered pizza again after they'd been in the lab for a few hours. As Peter is forcing his second piece down his throat, his mentor leans back in his seat, still chewing on his. 

"So, May mentioned you patrolled again the other night," he converses casually, with that voice of his that has an undertone of 'I know something you don't.' Peter stiffens slightly, just enough that it's noticeable. "See, I thought that was funny, because according to Karen, you never even went near your suit. Funny, right?"

It's almost scary how fast a lie flies to his head. "I'm so sorry for lying, Mr. Stark. Please don't tell May, I don't want her to worry. I have a lot of homework because the end of the quarter is coming up, and she was thinking of talking to the school. That would be _so_ embarrassing," he tells him, not lying about how embarrassing it would be. He'd also be so anxious and scared because then May would know he's failing and he doesn't actually have all the homework she thinks, and he's not even doing what he does have. 

Something he says smooths out the crease between his mentor's brows, and a small smile forms on his face. "I totally get that, kiddo. Lord knows the amount of homework I had as a kid. You can always come to me if you need help, alright?"

"Duh," Peter fakes a smile. "It's nothing I can't handle."

Tony drops it, and they make small talk as they eat, but Peter's not fully there. Instead, he's think about the biggest lie he's ever told. _It's nothing I can't handle._

The billionaire looks away for a moment, his eyes caught on a paper on the table that he squints to read from five feet away, and Peter watches the side of his face. 

_I lied, Mr. Stark. I can't handle this. Help me, please. Please. I can't handle this, I can't handle this, I can't handle-_

"We should probably get going if you want to be at your friend's place by eight," Tony says, interrupting his thoughts. 

The boy's cheeks flame, and he quickly finishes the pice of pizza in his hands, wiping them on his jeans. "Right. Uh, do you need her address?"

"Nope."

Peter pauses at that, slowly grabbing his backpack as he stands and nearly having a heart attack when the strap catches on his sleeve, but he fixes it before it can ride up enough to reveal his arm. "I've never told you it before," he replies suspiciously, tilting his head. 

"Kid, Pete," the man starts, grinning widely, "I'm Tony Stark."

That he is. Tony Freaking Stark, someone he doesn't deserve at all. "That's creepy," is all he says, faking a grin. 

Despite the fact that he's the one pretending to be okay, it hurts that Mr. Stark doesn't notice. 

* * *

When they get there, Tony puts a hand on his leg to stop him from getting out of the car right away. "You know you can talk to me, right? About anything?"

Peter furrows his brows like he's confused, smiles a little. "Of course, Mr. Stark," he says, not meeting his mentor's eyes. "MJ's waiting, so can I. . ?"

"Yeah, yeah, go ahead, kid. See you, Pete." The billionaire waves him off, seeming content with the boy's reply. 

Peter gets out, fakes a smile, and watches as Mr. Stark drives off. Then he walks up to the door nervously and raises his hand to knock. It swings open before his knuckles hit it, making him blink in shock and drop it to his side. 

"MJ. Hi," the brunet greets, trying to keep up his smile. 

She takes one look at him and says, "You look like you're in pain. Chill," then leads him inside. Squeaking in surprise, he scrambles to follow after her, closing the door behind him. 

He's never been alone with MJ, not really, and his hands are already beginning to sweat. "You always have Iron Man drive you around?"

Peter's eyes widen.

"Wha- Uh- No- I just-"

"Peter, chill," MJ says again, and then she pushes on his shoulders, making him sit in a chair he wasn't aware was behind him. 

The vigilante blinks owlishly up at his friend, who immediately turns her back on him with a him and begins rifling through a plastic bag on the counter. "Uh, how much of my hair are you gonna dye?"

She turns her dark eyes back to him, squinting. "Only a little. Purple," she tells him. 

There's never a point to arguing with Michelle Freaking Jones, so he just nods, fidgeting with his fingers and beginning to bounce his legs. 

While she does whatever it is she needs to do to get her stuff ready, Peter spaces out. Not completely, not when his fidgeting turns into reaching under his sleeve and scratching at his scabs. He listens for any slight movement of one of his only two friends, and picks at his wrist. 

Wincing slightly when one of them dots with blood because of his aggravating fingers, Peter bites his lip and presses his thumb down on it to stop it from bleeding.

The boy wonders when it got so easy to do this, to look at his skin with dozens of self-inflicted wounds, and not feel anything. His feelings do vary at some times, though. Right now, it's nothing. Right now, it's just slight anxiety buzzing in his veins because he's alone with MJ.

Other times, though, it's agony. Other times, it's pain that makes him writhe and sob and wish he wasn't the way he is. When it's nothing, he longs for the pain, and when it's pain, he longs for the nothing. It's ironic, really. Peter thinks back on a poem he saw at some point, something about the seasons. You want cold when you're warm and you want warmth when you're cold. 

"Okay, there's-" 

Peter jolts, looking up at MJ with wide eyes as she drops the boxes of dye in her hands. Her eyes are wide, mirroring his, and she's looking at Peter's arm. Peter's bare arm. 

As he panics, he wants the nothing.


End file.
